


Ill-Timed Dramatic Entrances

by fakexpearls



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2020-01-23 11:58:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18549304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fakexpearls/pseuds/fakexpearls
Summary: From the prompt:My neighbor’s sibling got the wrong house number and barged into my apartment on accident - AULaurent storms into Auguste's flat because that's what one does after they've had a bad day and need to be a bit dramatic. It's the way he was raised, after all.





	Ill-Timed Dramatic Entrances

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote and posted this last winter on tumblr and wanted to get it posted here for ages. This is something silly and fun that I hope someone enjoys reading as much as I did writing it (and avoiding my Big Bang fic at the time).

There were some weeks when Laurent was pleasantly surprised when Friday rolled around.

This was not one of them. He had been ready for the week to be over Tuesday afternoon when no one in his group for Cooperatively Structured Learning, but had soldiered on as one did in a Masters Program. Things were cured with wine and going to bed before looking at any reading that needed to be done.

Still, he had made it to Wednesday afternoon before texting his brother and asking politely (all but demanding) to come over and commiserate over some _decent_ wine. _The pinot noir, Auguste. If you don’t have it, I’ll stop by the liquor store on the way and then eat ramen all until Monday it’s fine._  Surely his brother’s work week hadn't been all roses either. It would be a mutually beneficial evening.

Oh, it had been fine? Even with Michael in management?

Even so, Laurent would be over before dinner.

This was, of course, the one time his American Literature professor got caught up in the discussion and class went on five minutes longer than usual, meaning he was making his way across campus at 7:05. And with the time change, that meant the sun had already set.

And it was freezing cold - the snow from the morning hadn’t had a chance to melt - and Laurent had left his hat back at his own apartment that morning. Bundled in his coat, messenger bag slung over his shoulder and hands deep in his pockets, Laurent tried to make the trek to Auguste’s apartment as quickly as possible.

It normally took twenty minutes from campus on a good day if the trains were running on time. Today, they were not. It was quicker to walk the twelve blocks than wait for the delayed train, even if Laurent could no longer feel his ears or the tip of his nose around the sixth block. The extra walking meant he had time to really stew about the actual reason he had texted his brother - not everything else that had gone slightly awry.

Until today, he had thought Jacqueline was a very smart woman. Wise beyond her twenty-four years. She was going to make a splash in the industry when she finished up her masters. Those had been Facebook updates that Laurent had actually been looking forward to while he toiled away with secondary-education.

But then, she had asked him out.

“Shocking development, Brother,” Laurent began as he came through Auguste’s door. “Not only are most of the men on campus garbage, but I think we have to add some women to the list.” He threw down his messenger bag beside the couch and started to unravel his scarf.

“I don’t know how many ways there are to politely say one isn’t interested in another person, but I tried many of them today. Many of them. But this girl,” he paused to blow some his hair from his eyes, and then made quick work of his gloves. “She wouldn’t take any of my hints. Not. One. I was about to pretend my non-existent boyfriend was texting when she finally asked if I would go out with her tomorrow night.”

Tossing his coat on the couch, Laurent then threw himself down on it and kept ranting. “Just a dinner, casual, _you know._ ” He tried to mimic her flirtatious tone. “No, Jacqueline, I wouldn’t know. Because I like men.” He said the last part firmly, like he wished he had been able to tell her. “Gods, I hope have that wine.”

“Uh...I have beer,” said a voice that was decidedly deeper than Auguste’s.

Having dramatically laid his head against the back of the couch and closed his eyes, Laurent peeled on open and then froze.

The ceiling looked the same as it always had, but he could see a dinner table from his peripheral that didn’t belong in that corner, and now that he took a second, the couch felt much too soft beneath him. If given the chance, Laurent knew he could easily fall asleep curled in the corner of it whereas Auguste’s ridiculously stiff leather settee was only comfortable when one was drunk.

Very slowly, because clearly something was wrong, Laurent opened his other eye and turned towards the person on the other end of the couch who was definitely not his brother.

The man, spread out in sweatpants and a very comfortable looking hoodie was holding a video game controller. His skin was the sort of complexion that made Laurent look like a sheet of paper, and his curly brown hair - in a disarray - matched the color of his eyes. Those eyes that were staring back at him, full of confusion.

“Where is Auguste?” Laurent asked, calmly and logically, ignoring the warmth rising to his cheeks.

“Next door? I’m guessing?”

“Right. _Right._ ” Laurent moved to push himself off the couch, gathering his things that he had dramatically thrown everywhere. Like an idiot.  

“Uhhhh…” Began his brother’s very, _very_  attractive neighbor.

Who ticked off every single box of Laurent’s fantasies.

“No! It’s uh - I’m really sorry about --” He gestured to himself and then towards the door, maybe wanting to die of embarrassment. Was this how Jacqueline had felt earlier?

“You should lock your door,” he said. Then, “I’m just going to --”

“Is Auguste not home?” The hot neighbor asked, putting down his controller and moving like he would push off the couch.

Laurent took a few steps back and nearly tripped over his scarf. “I hope so. I mean, he should be. Your couch is very comfy, by the way,” he said. The man probably already knew that, but still.  

He reached for the doorknob, his bag slipping down his shoulder, just as it was turning.

“Dude, you would not believe --” Another man, this one closer to the hot neighbor in stature and looks, froze when his eyes landed on Laurent and. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then looked to the hot neighbor. “Another blonde, Damen? I was gone thirty minutes.”

“No! Just a mistake! No blondes!” Laurent exclaimed, which made no sense at all - he was blonde. And he most certainly wanted to die as the man holding a pizza box turned to him with a glare. “Is that from Giordano’s?” He asked, nodding at the pizza which smelled sinfully delicious. “Actually - doesn’t matter. I...have a good night.”

Escaping out into the hall, Laurent pulled the door closed behind him and moved to the wall beside it. Leaning his head back, he let out a long breath of mortification.

Then the voice of the less-hot neighbor carried through the door and he didn’t sound pleased. So, with his scarf dragging behind him, Laurent made sure to read the next door’s number - 304 - before trying the knob.

It also - and as usual - wasn’t locked.

“Laurent, there you are.” Auguste was sitting on his black, stiff, leather couch, his phone in hand and a bottle of wine and two empty glasses on the coffee table. “Do you want Chinese for dinner?”

“You didn’t tell me your neighbor was hot.”

“What?”

“Your neighbor.” Laurent threw his bag down for the second time. “Who doesn’t lock his door.” He hung up his coat. “And looks like he’s could bench press me while I held a basket of puppies.”

“That’s quite a specific fantasy.”

“Auguste!”

His older brother gave him a well-meaning look, shaking his head. “Damen is a very nice neighbor. We go to the gym together sometimes.”

That was an image Laurent was never going to be free of. What muscles were underneath all that loungewear? “Of course you do. I need wine.”

“Yes, so your text said.”

“Maybe a full bottle,” Laurent said.

Auguste laughed. “Is he really that attractive?”

In response, Laurent face-planted on the end of the couch. A quiet “ow” escaped him.

“I thought you had seen him before,” continued Auguste. “Wait - did you...You didn’t storm in there not paying attention.”

“Wine, Auguste.”

His brother laughed, “Oh my god. Oh that’s so good.”

Laurent repeated his request, pushing himself up to sit properly. He poured his own glass full to the brim.

 

+

 

The next morning, or early afternoon, rather, Laurent bundled himself back up to brave the slightly warmer winter day. His only class didn’t start until three, but the bakery down the street had the best croissants and coffee in town. Not that he had shared this fact with any one of his classmates. Or his brother.

Some things had to be secret.

Two bottles of wine had cured him of his embarrassment the night before, and a huge order of lo mein and wontons had staved off the possible hangover. Everything was going to be just fine, and if Laurent simply made the choice to triple-check the apartment number from here on out and avoid any interactions with Damen the Hot Neighbor, that would just as well.

Maybe, Auguste could visit Laurent’s less swanky, more dormy, apartment.

Standing at the elevator, Laurent gave himself a nod. That was a solid plan. One couldn’t make a fool of themselves if the --

“Hello.”

Laurent cursed to himself. Outloud, he said, “Hello,” and most certainly did not look at Damen beside him.

Who was dressed in a sportcoat and a beanie that only made his curls look even better. He was going to freeze, but he was going to look so good doing it.

“I take it Auguste was home?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“And I take it your his brother?” Damen asked, earnestly as the elevator arrived, the doors opening with a chime. “He’s mentioned you often.”

Laurent stepped into the elevator, trying to push the butterflies in his stomach and down the same as the rising blush to his cheeks. “My name is Laurent,” he said.

“Well, Laurent. I’m Damen. Are you still interested in that glass of wine?”

As the elevator doors started to close, Laurent let the corners of his mouth rise.


End file.
